


Purer Blood

by terri_testing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 14:22:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5788651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terri_testing/pseuds/terri_testing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quirrell!Mort attempts to establish whether that Mudblood’s murder might have irrevocably alienated a certain former servant.  A prequel to “His Servant’s Return.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purer Blood

_“But I was very weary—I’ll say that much for myself—and very angry, and full of despair; and just then, there on my knees, I did not love anyone, and I never had.”  Peter S. Beagle, The Innkeeper’s Song. _

 

Snape slipped through the main door and released his rain-repelling charm.  On such a night as this, had he consulted his own pleasure, he’d have stayed in his dungeons.  But Lucius had been interested in learning Snape's impressions of his heir’s schoolwork and of the Boy-Who-Lived, and his invitation had been most pressing.  Snape’s best judgment and Dumbledore’s had been that Severus should accept gracefully, if that term might apply.

Snape had learned nothing in this night's exchange equal in value to the time he’d spent, but the connection must be maintained.  And the meal and the brandy, as always, had been superb--even if he'd drunk quite a lot less of the latter than he had seemed to.  It was a damned shame to Evanesco such fine stuff.

And it was another damned shame that Snape couldn’t patent his potion simulating the physical symptoms of overindulgence. With the potion in his bloodstream, a sip of alcohol per hour made his skin progressively flush and his eyes glaze. Snape dwelt wistfully on the potential demand for the potion among other spies and cheats. But then, the brewers in Knockturn Alley paid royalties only when coerced….

Snape’s musings were rudely interrupted.

From the shadows under the main staircase came a stammer, "B-b-back from v-v-visiting your l-lady-love, S-s-severus?"

Snape turned swiftly but a little more heavily than usual, a sneer plastered on his face.  "You do realize, Quirrell, how ludicrous it is that _I_ should be forced to correct someone on a point of etiquette?”

A slashing black eyebrow emphasized his point, and Quirrell cringed a little. Snape said savagely, “Did your Grand Tour erase from your capacious memory the concept of a ‘private life,’ Quirrell? Allow me to define the term for you: those things which are no business of another’s. In particular, no business of yours.”

Despite his cringing, Quirrell moved forward into the light, close enough to register Snape's apparent state.  There was an odd intentness to his scrutiny; why the hell should Quirrell suddenly care how Severus entertained himself on his night-a-month off?  Snape kept his face annoyed but blank of true thought.

The junior professor stuttered, "N-n-now, S-S-Severus, I was j-just making c-c-conversation." Snape turned, again a little clumsily, and stalked off without deigning to answer.

But as Snape strode down the hall, several reflections intruded.  The first was that it wasn't a night that Quirrell was scheduled to patrol, and that Quirrell had never previously volunteered for the duty. The next was that at one of the staff meetings Quirrell had also made a snide comment about Snape's love life.

Two points were enough to plot a line. Snape managed not to freeze in midstep; Quirrell might still be observing.

*

"Headmaster,"  Snape said quietly.  "Might we have privacy?   Complete?"

Dumbledore lifted first his eyebrows and then his wand.

Snape took a step towards the old man's desk and then away again.  He neither sat nor settled in to pacing, but stood uneasily, his hands working a little.  Dumbledore frowned a little at Snape's uncharacteristic indecision, but waited in silence. The Potions master finally said reluctantly, "As to the speculation that a certain staff member might have been suborned by a former Death Eater.... A far worse possibility presents itself as an option."

Dumbledore straightened in his chair; Snape felt the full impact of his ice-blue stare.  Snape met the headmaster’s eyes flatly, not letting him in.  After a moment the old man said coolly, "It is certainly true that my investigations show that the young man’s travels took him to what I believe to be the right part of the world.  Or the wrong part, if you will. But what, Severus, can possibly have given _you_ reason for such a suspicion?"

"Very little," Snape admitted, his gaze dropping to the desk.  "But any change in patterns of behavior may be significant, no?”

Dumbledore nodded silently, his eyes intent on his spy’s face. Snape started finally to pace, fitting his stride easily into the limited space. He said, thin-lipped, "He has twice or thrice said things which might be taken as subtle probes about where my loyalties now lie.  Or which might simply be taken as digs against my … loyalty to you, save that he doesn't enjoy what happens when he antagonizes me.  So that they are intended as probes seems indisputable. That in itself is inconclusive; he might do that whomever he’s now serving, including if he has the initiative to serve himself. 

“But last night—he intercepted me on my return from my night off, coolly evaluated my condition—incorrectly, I do trust—and demanded to know if I'd been visiting a … lover.” 

Snape stalked to the far end of the office and addressed the window. “And that's not the first time since Quirrell’s return from that Grand Tour of his that he's expressed an interest in ... in my possible romantic involvements.  Which he never had before, no more than I’m interested in his puerile pursuits or lack thereof.”

The black form bit off the next words as though they were obscenities. “And it occurs to me that one person only might have any real reason to link the question of my—loyalties to that of my—love-life.”

Snape added scathingly, “Well, three people, in fact. And two of us are here. Unless you’ve shared that information. Headmaster."

He whirled to face Dumbledore, a black shadow against the pale morning light.

Dumbledore regarded his Potions master and said calmly, “A spot of tea, Severus? And then we can discuss your concerns, which I believe may be well-grounded. Thank you for bringing them to my attention. As to my disseminating sensitive information, Severus—when have you ever known me to have done so to no advantage?”

The dark figure snorted reluctantly.  

“Even had I not given my word,” the old man murmured. Snape gave a stiff nod.

The headmaster busied himself at the tea-tray while the young man collected himself.

 

*

 

Dumbledore ordered the Hogwarts house-elves to snag two hairs from Quirrell’s pillow; interestingly, that simple task took several weeks to accomplish. Not in the least what one would expect of an innocent—or at least, non-paranoid—man. Snape started sweeping his own bedroom and bath for stray hairs thrice a day, and he renewed the spells on his robes that collected and trapped them.   Once Snape had obtained Quirrell’s hair, he made a proximity charm and kept it on a chain about his throat. He didn’t ask what Dumbledore had done with his.

The charm heated on Snape’s return on each of his next two nights off, though Quirrell didn’t show himself. It alerted Snape, moreover, on diverse other occasions—particularly at night. Not only on the third floor corridor, either. Their jousting over the stone aside, Quirrell was clearly spying on Voldemort’s former spy. And he seemed to be interested particularly in Snape’s … extracurricular activities.

Snape grinned sardonically to himself. It would seem that he should give Quirrell something to see. So he carefully laid a parchment trail: purchases of chocolates, wine, flowers, little gifts, nothing major, all traceable only with some difficulty to Snape, and appearing to date back to last summer. It mattered little if the trail were traced now or later, so long as it was there.

Yet Snape couldn’t let Quirrell target some innocent who accidentally met the parameters Snape would set, or, worse, search for her as a hostage and conclude that the lady was fictitious. No, a _petite amie_ and a subsequent quarrel would best meet Snape’s needs.   If Snape’s first illusion worked, the following month Quirrell should witness an early, furious return and then an abrupt cessation of gift-buying. That should suffice. The lady’s gambit would have failed, and with it, her interest in pursuing Snape. All readily comprehensible.

 

*

 

Now to spring the trap.  

Snape, having declined another invitation from the Malfoys, Apparated from the Hogwarts gates to Diagon Alley and disappeared after purchasing more chocolate and wine. In a rented room, Snape worked carefully for several hours. By twenty to twelve, Snape was prepared.   By the time he struggled through the snow from the gates to the castle itself he’d be just a hair tardy from his leave. Snape swallowed one of the few muscle-relaxing potions that did not impair one’s mental acuity, scoured its taste from his mouth, and Apparated.

Snape shut the main door with a little too much force, then leaned for just a moment against it. He pushed himself off it and caught his balance. Snape lifted one gloved hand to push back his hood and to brush at the snow on his travelling cloak. Then he drew his wand and paused, irresolute. Finally he snorted, snatched the heavy thing off with a muttered, “What the hell,” and just shook the snow off.

Holding the cloak carelessly over one arm, Snape made his way down the hall towards his dungeon stairwell. He was clearly heated from wine and exercise; he wouldn’t want his spell-warmed cloak within the castle. The top two buttons of his best casual robe were undone, as was a single careless button on Snape’s right cuff.  

Should anyone happen to come close enough to notice, a red mark might be barely visible in the hollow of Snape’s throat. And should anyone come that close, he might detect, clinging to Snape’s throat and body, faint scents of Madam Flora’s second-most popular shampoo, a much more exclusive perfume, and the barest musky trace.

Snape walked casually, not indulging in his trademark tense stride. A faint smirk lingered on his face.

The attack came when Snape passed the stairs to the Ravenclaw tower, in a whisper so soft that only spell-enhanced hearing could have caught it.

" _Verum dice_!" Snape swayed when it hit him, going cold with fear under his potions-induced flush.

Despite his words to the headmaster, Snape hadn’t let himself truly imagine…. But how else could the younger man have learned one of the Dark Lord’s more secret spells? The raiders were never taught this, not even those highest in favor. Only the best-placed intelligence agents ever learned it: those currently at large comprised, to Snape’s knowledge, Malfoy, Karkaroff and Snape. The DMLE had never known it, only a few among the Aurors, those most trusted by the Order: Moody, now, was left. Or Dumbledore himself. None of these would have taught Quirrell.

Which left… the spell’s inventor.

Nor had Snape ever imagined Quirrell capable of such power in a mental assault.

It might be worse even than they had thought. Snape suppressed a shudder.

But Snape’s Occlumency held against the strike. Barely.

Swaying was good, actually; swaying would be a normal physical reaction.  Snape let his body sag against the wall as though caught in spell-induced laxity.  He felt an unwilling respect; should a ghost or portrait witness any part of the ensuing interrogation, Snape would simply appear a bit drunker than he'd previously seemed and uncharacteristically loquacious with it.

Sure enough, Quirrell appeared, grabbed Snape’s elbow, and said, "W-w-we'd b-b-better get you t-t-to your quarters, S-S-Severus."

Snape walked loosely where Quirrell guided him; a glance from heavy-lidded eyes established that they were going in the direction of the Slytherin dungeons, at least.  Snape made sure his wand was ready to leap from sleeve to hand if need be. Sweat rolled down inside his misbuttoned robe.

After a minute, Quirrell glanced up at Snape and murmured, "So what's she like?"

Snape blinked and let a smile slide over his features.  "A nice armful.  But a silly bint.  She put Amortencia in my drink.  Trying to slip it past a potions master!"  He stopped walking to lean against the wall and laugh, riding on the muscle-relaxing potion and the spell-slackness.

Under the loose laughter, Snape’s mind coiled tighter. But no hint must reach his muscles or his readable emotions. Was Quirrell a skilled Legilimens, like his probable master? Snape must assume so, must act as though that were truth.

"Amortencia?  So what'd you do?" Quirrell asked.

"Took it."  Snape laughed harder.

"What?!"  Quirrell yelped.  Snape noted coldly that the younger man had stopped stuttering. 

Snape relaxed a little more against his wall and said, "An es--esk-experiment.  To see if infatuation really does make screwing better, like they say. Had th’antidote after, of course. Thought she, she might pull something…."

"And—er—does it?" Quirrell sounded both fascinated and repelled.

Snape shut his eyes, smiling.  "Infatuation and anger together, yes, lend a certain... spice...."

Quirrell tugged him forward again; Snape moved readily once his attention had been caught.  They started down the stairs, and Quirrell muttered, "So why'd she give you Amortencia?"

"Silly bint,” Snape said affectionately.  “She thinks she can get me to marry her.  Musta cost her two months’ wages in Knockturn…. Not gonna ... she's good for a cuddle, but ‘m not gonna marry her. Silly girl.”

“Why not? Still pining for that Mudblood?”

“Mudblood?” Snape let himself chuckle; the sound was almost a giggle. He choked back his reflexive tensing and continued easily, “Na, not … she’s not a Mudblood. Half-blood. Not too bad, but not good enough for me, not for marriage.”

Quirrel snorted.   “You’re a Half-blood yourself, Severus. Why wouldn’t she be good enough?” He pulled Snape downward; by now Snape’s arm was draped over his shoulder. Quirrell seemed for all the world like a friend kindly helping his drunken friend home, not like a man interrogating another using an illegal curse. Snape let his head loll a little.

“’m a Half-blood… but if I marry up, my grandchildren will be Purebloods. There’re other women,  purer blood, worthier…. ’m not like you, Quirrell. Not wasting my money on Grand Tours. Research an’ saving my money. I have ‘leven patents already. _Eleven,_ ” he enunciated clearly. “Another by Yule, if I can finish the testing. Hard to test properly, during term….”

They’d reached a landing. Snape pulled himself away from the younger man’s arm and stared at him owlishly. “Money an’, an’ reputation. I can buy myself in. I could have some of ‘em already. The minor houses. But I don’ wanna settle for that.”

Snape blinked at Quirrell and leaned against the wall, telling the young Ravenclaw, “Another decade, I’ll have my pick. Of the impov’rished houses, anyhow.   Jus’ hafta be patient. A younger Burke or a Greenglass. Even a Black, maybe, a minor one—I could. _I could_. An’ not disi—disinherited. A _real_ one. An’ then, an’ then my grandchildren’ll add ‘Snape’ to Nature’s Nobility…. Just need to hold out a little longer.”

“That’s what you’re out for?” Quirrell probed softly. Snape. daringly, met his eyes for a moment; Snape’s were bright and excited, if not exactly focused.

“As good as anyone. As good as ANYONE,” Snape asserted, letting his cheek scrape against the wall as his eyelids fell again and his body slumped. He didn’t react to the trickle of blood down his face.

“What about your old Master, Severus? If he ever returns, will you serve him?”

Snape muttered, eyes still shut, “If he returns in strength, I must…. Kill me otherwise. But he’s not offering me anything now….”

“So what about that Mudblood?” the Dark Lord’s creature queried softly.

“Wha—what Mudblood?”

“That pretty Gryffindor prefect back then—the red-headed one that married Potter. Didn’t you have your eye on her?” suggested Quirrell.

Snape jerked upright and hissed, “That one. I had plans for her.”

Quirrell hummed, almost inaudibly, “Plans?”

Snape said fiercely, “She shoulda been _mine_. Given to me.   A lust potion, and Complicio—she’d a done anything I asked. I’d have taken her on Potter’s grave. She’d have begged me for it.”

He grinned, a horrible rictus, and then deflated.   “Then I’d a had to kill her, I suppose. Or Obliviate her.”

He straightened again, looking triumphantly at the other man, and hissed, “But _I_ would have remembered. _I_ would have known!”

Quirrell answered, in the satisfied tones of a Ravenclaw solving a puzzle, “Infatuation and anger, Severus?”

Snape pushed himself from the wall, saying, “I shoulda had her…. Wait. Quirrell? Why am I—what am I saying to you?”

Snape shook himself roughly. No Slytherin worth a curse would publicly admit to plotting a crime; it would be enough to start pulling a strong-willed wizard out of the warm haze of the Imperius or the Dark Lord’s lovely little Verum dicere.

Quirrell’s Memory Charm was non-verbal, and again much stronger than Snape would have predicted. Snape lolled again, his eyes carefully blanked. He badly needed to discuss Quirrell’s unexpected proficiency with the headmaster.

The younger man grabbed Snape’s arm again in that parody of friendship. “H-h-how m-much did you h-h-have tonight, anyh-h-how, S-S-Severus?”

Snape wobbled, and allowed Quirrell to guide him to his door. But he cursed him away without letting Quirrell hear the password; however drunk or addled he might be pretending to be, Snape wouldn’t pretend to be a fool.

 

**Author's Note:**

> we saw that Tom had developed a crude form of the Verum dicere by the time he was eleven. (“Tell the truth!” he commanded Dumbledore, and was astonished not to be obeyed.) However, the Imperius can be resisted; Harry successfully resisted Tom’s Imperius when he was only fourteen. And I imagine that an accomplished Occlumens has an advantage over untrained people in resisting any of the mind-controlling spells, at least if he’s prepared.


End file.
